Years passed.  Franz Hoffner was a tall, slight boy, and his father was blind.  Sitting at his cottage door he could no longer see the tall towers of the old cathedral, but he could hear the chime of stately bells—­and his fingers played on:  while Franz and Nanette not unfrequently climbed up the winding stairs, just to beg Herr Von Stein to let them touch the keys their father used to love.

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It happened one day the organist went out and left the key in the lock.  Franz entered with the evening worshippers.  A nameless feeling seized him.  Urged on by the sudden impulse, he mounted the stairs.  He did not dream of playing, he only thought of the organ as his father’s friend; and to seat himself on the stool where his father had so often sat was all he aimed to do.  A moment, and he spied the key; would there be any harm in raising the lid and playing himself?  Herr Von Stein had never denied him.  He grew courageous.  A few chords and Franz forgot that his father would be expecting him; piece after piece was played till his memory could serve him no longer, and then he began to improvise.

All at once heavy shadows were cast over the keys:  he looked down into the church, it was dark and still.  A strange awe seized him, he felt that it was night; and the great doors locked.  Hastily as his trembling limbs would allow, he crept down the stairs.  Darkness shrouded the aisles.  He reached the doors, they were barred and bolted.  What would his father say? and Nanette, would she think where he was, and rouse the old door-keeper?

High up through the tower-window he caught sight of a star; and the moon poured her silver radiance full on the face of the organ.  Creeping up the stairs, he once more opened the instrument.  Surely some one would hear him if he played, and Nanette he knew would not leave him to stay in the old cathedral alone.

Hours passed:  the full moon cast her splendor on a sweet child-face bent over the keys in the organ-loft of the old cathedral, a smile still played about his lips, and his light brown hair lay in rings on his broad, white forehead.  Franz was asleep, and while asleep he dreamed.

* * * * *

A beautiful lady, he thought, came to the cottage; she had a sweet, lovely face, but so sad that Franz wondered what sorrow could have come to one so rich and beautiful.  The lady caught the expression of his eye, and slipping her arm around him, drew him still nearer.

“You think because I am rich that I must be happy.  Learn then, my child, that wealth does not bring happiness; neither does beauty win lasting favor.  To be good is to be rich, and it also makes us beautiful.  The power that we have in ourselves is far superior to the outward circumstances that surround us.”

“My father had this power,” replied Franz.  “You see it did not profit him; for when he thought himself secure as kappelmeister, the elector gave his place to another, and now he is growing old and blind.”